I was ten when the violence arrived.
I was five when I learned about the mountains. Not from a textbook, but from the view on the road to my abuela ’s pueblo. My father stopped the dusty Renault on a precipice. He lifted me onto his shoulders—suddenly I was seven feet tall. as a little girl growing up in colombia
The world felt loud and bright—the neon orange of a skin, the screech of the busetas weaving through traffic, and the constant, fierce reminder that family was the only anchor. We were taught to be "bien educadas," to greet every auntie with a kiss on the cheek, but our knees were always scraped from chasing shadows through the coffee trees or the dusty plazas. I was ten when the violence arrived
She grows up with a profound appreciation for her country’s biodiversity. She knows that her country holds the beauty of the Caño Cristales river and the wax palms of the Cocora Valley. She is taught that her homeland is not defined by its struggles, but by its immense capacity for joy and rebirth. My father stopped the dusty Renault on a precipice
Education is highly valued, but expectations can vary:
My family was very close-knit, and our home was always filled with laughter and music. My parents, Juan and María, were high school sweethearts who instilled in me and my siblings a strong sense of values, love, and respect for our culture. My mom would often tell me stories about our ancestors, who came from Spain and Italy, and how they influenced our traditions and customs.